Pancakes
by TheGirlWhoDancesWithAlphas
Summary: "can we just go home? you won't let me get drunk; you won't let me get laid, and I don't want to spend the entire night sitting here staring at you because I refer back to, you won't let me get laid."


Stiles was drunk.

Past the point of denying the fact that he was totally shit faced—drunk. Which wouldn't have really been a problem because, well, he was Stiles and he was at the jungle and usually he would have just found a random guy to take him home, except he was there with Derek?

Well, scratch that he wasn't like "there" with Derek. He was, or had been there with the pack, except they had all left about an hour and five drinks ago leaving Stiles with Derek Mc-Judgment-Pants. And therein lied the problem, Derek would not let him hit on anyone!

The guy kept spouting words about how Stiles would regret it in the morning and dragging him away from very hot, and very willing men. Which you know was just not cool in any way, shape, or form.

"Du—dude, that was like." Stiles flailed gesturing from the Adonis-like man who had recently had his hands all over him. "Derek he was hot!" he exclaimed exasperatedly, searching the table for another drink because if he wasn't going to get laid well at least he was going to get totally smashed thank you very much.

"He wasn't that hot." Derek said with a shrug.

"Yes he was!" he said, speech only slightly slurred, because come on he could totally hold his liquor, kind of. "Derek! He was, like—hot and he totally wanted a piece of this, why are you cramping my style sour-jerk?"

Derek rolled his eyes, or at least Stiles thought maybe he did, he probably did something along those lines because Derek is just sassy like that.

"Stiles he was like thirty." Derek replied exasperated, handing Stiles the beer he had in his hand in hopes that maybe it would make him stop talking as much, it wouldn't, he actually should have known that by now.

"So" Stiles replied, "I mean you're almost thirty and you're like the hottest guy in here."

"I'm twenty five."

"See almost thirty." Stiles countered waving the spilling bottle about his head, "I mean come on Derek how will I ever get laid if you keep on getting in the way."

"You're not even old enough to be this drunk." Derek replied, "And I" he said reaching for his beer bottle and returning it to its place in front of him, "should stop enabling you. I am never buying you another alcoholic beverage again."

"Dereeeek" Stiles whined, "but you, I'm nineteen dude!" he complained lying his head down on the table angrily. Well actually it wasn't angrily, it was more like… aggravated, sad, and maybe totally horny. Which by the way, Derek was also not helping with, what with his stupid abs, and body, and face, and ugh—the guy was like a two-step recipe for sexual frustration.

"And what is the legal age to drink alcohol in the United States." Derek said, patronizingly with that stupid smirk of his plastered over his features. For the most part Stiles just wanted to smack it off; he knew that the legal drinking age was twenty one. He also knew that with all the supernatural crime fighting that he engaged in, he probably wouldn't live to see his twenty first birthday—so he had quite a few things he wanted to see and do before he met his untimely demise. One of them being the really hot bartender.

"Fuck off." He muttered.

"Sorry, the correct answer is 21, which you—are not."

"Asshole" Stiles said frowning at him and laying his head on the table. "can we just go home, you won't let me get drunk, you won't let me get laid, and I don't want to spend the entire night sitting here staring at you because I refer back to, you won't let me get laid."

Derek might have spit out his drink, but Stiles wasn't looking so he couldn't confirm that.

"What does staring at me have to do with getting laid?" Derek asked, carefully because Stiles was drunk and he wasn't sure that asking him questions at this point wasn't "taking advantage"

Stiles mumbled something into the crease of his elbow.

"I can't hear you."

"I said, come on man, you know I would like die to hit that." Stiles said raising his head and gesturing to like, all of Derek. "in like a, come home to that every night and make you breakfast every morning kind of way but you've made it pretty apparent that isn't ever going to happen since like—ever so I gave up." Stiles said shrugging, "which just adds another level of not cool to the fact that you won't let me hook up with random strangers as a way to get over you because how the hell else am I supposed to do it?"

"You're not." Derek said setting his beer down and pulling out his wallet to pay for the drinks from that night.

"That is like, one hundred percent not fair; you can't not want me and then keep me from trying to get over you. Even Jackson isn't that big of a dick dude, actually you know what, I'm going home." Stiles said pushing himself off of the bar stool and almost falling over.

"Who said I don't want you?" Derek said calmly to the back of Stiles' head, "Because I don't recall ever saying those words."

Stiles turned back around with a confused look on his face.

"I've been hitting on you since like… the day I met you, I asked you out and got rejected so many times it's not even funny and then that one time you agreed to go to the movie with me—you stood me up." Stiles said frowning, "and it's not like I can get rid of you because you're the alpha and therefore I am stuck seeing you like almost every day and so I showed up tonight hoping that maybe I could find some random guy and maybe they would help me to forget how much my life sucks. They would help me forget that I fight supernatural beings, and my best friend is a werewolf whose girlfriend, pack, and himself have all tried to kill me at one point or another. Maybe I'd be able to forget that every single day is a battle for my life and in the middle of all that is still found time to fall in love with the stupidest person that I could ever fall in love with, because not only are you not interested, but you're also a dick."

Stiles took a deep breath before continuing his rant, "I thought that maybe I could try to forget that while you rejected me constantly before continuing to flirt with me, stood me up, and continue to treat me like I'm worth nothing, I still fucking love you. But I get here, and you drag me away from every guy I possibly could use to achieve those means, you cut me off from getting drunk enough to pretend this night never happened, and then you ask me who says you don't want me? You Derek. You said you don't want me."

It was silent, or as silent as a gay bar can get anyway. But for Stiles, all he could hear was the sound of blood rushing to his head, it was clear again. Like suddenly the buzz he had been working towards all night had just disappeared in a snap and god did he want it back, it made the world seem candy coated and less horrible.

"I—didn't…" Derek started.

"Don't bother." Stiles countered, "I'm going home."

Stiles shoved his way through writhing bodies, gyrating in time with the too loud music that made him want to dance only minutes before but now made his head scream. He just wanted to go home, to his bed, and his pillow, and his ability to lock his doors, and window and pretend that he was safer than he really was.

He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

"Stiles."

Derek was following him.

"Stiles…"

And he wasn't going to give up and let Stiles walk home was he?

"Stiles… please"

"What Derek, what could you possibly have to say right now?" Stiles snapped, spinning around to glare at him.

"I'm an idiot." Derek said frowning and shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket.

"Yeah, I know." Stiles replied.

"Like a huge idiot." Derek countered.

"I know."

"I didn't realize they were dates." Derek said staring intently at the pavement between them, "I thought they were pack things, or friend stuff and it wasn't that I didn't want to go, because I did I just didn't want to get in the way or anything. I'm like, almost thirty right? And I didn't want to ruin everyone's night out by being there, if I knew they were dates…"

"I asked you to dinner." Stiles said frowning, "and you said you'd come and you never showed up."

"I got—I wanted to go." Derek said, "but I just freaked out, because I wanted it to be a date, but then I wasn't sure that you wanted it to be a date and Erica said it was a date and peter said it might not be and I started thinking when I was driving over there that maybe I was over-dressed and maybe you would laugh at me for thinking- for hoping it was a date. I mean can you blame me, who would want to date me Stiles? I have emotional baggage the size of Mount Rushmore, I can barely stand people, and I'm a werewolf for god's sakes. I just—I panicked and I ran away and I'm sorry."

Stiles just stood there, half stunned into silence and half unsure of what to believe.

"I'm sorry." Derek said frowning.

"Sourwolf, just take me home." He said turning and walking towards Derek's car.

The ride wasn't filled with chatter, actually it was pretty tense and awkward and Stiles just wanted to pretend the entire night never happened; actually he wanted to pretend the entire past three years didn't exist but he couldn't.

They pulled into his driveway and Derek cut the engine.

"You want to come in?" Stiles asked, cutting off anything Derek had been about to say, because he really didn't think he could handle another sorry at the moment.

"Do you want me to come in?" Derek asked, unsure.

"Did you not listen to anything I said earlier about the whole, domestic crap, with pancakes—making you breakfast would totally include pancakes, except maybe you should make me pancakes. Cause I really like pancakes and you have a lot of stupidity to make up for." He said smirk sneaking across his face.

"I think I'd like that." Derek said smiling and following Stiles into the house. "I'm not really sure how to make pancakes though."

Stiles looked like he was about to slap him, "that is blasphemy, If I wasn't tired and drunk I would teach you right now, but tomorrow we are waking up at the crack of noon and we are making pancakes." Stiles declared.

Derek laughed, "Come on Stiles, bedtime."

"I'm not a child." He countered.

"Doesn't mean it's any less of your bedtime, you're going to want to kill yourself in the morning with that hangover." He said smirking and pushing his—well he wasn't really sure what Stiles' title was yet—towards the bedroom.

"You're still a jackass." Stiles said sticking his tongue out at Derek childishly before flopping down onto the bed and wiggling out of his pants. "Come on sourwolf, I'm not gonna cuddle myself."

"Remind me why I put up with you again?" Derek asked sliding his jeans off and climbing into bed beside Stiles.

"Because you love me." Stiles yawned, curling himself into Derek's chest.

"I do." He replied with a smile.

Stiles looked at him, surprised. "I was just—you don't have to…"

Derek leaned forward, pressing his lips softly, reassuringly against Stiles. Small contented smile on his face, "I mean it."

Stiles grinned, "I knew there was a reason you were dragging me away from all the hotties earlier."

"They weren't that hot." Derek replied.

"Not as hot as you babe." Stiles said smiling, "you realize now that you have me, you're kind of stuck with me forever right?"

"yep." Derek smiled, "but that's okay, it will be worth it for the pancakes.


End file.
